


courtesy, sympathy, taste

by ephemeralgrime



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Cardinal Copia is Not Papa Nihil's Son, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Smoking, The Jacket (TM), au where papa iii is alive and well and a general nuisance, one (1) use of the word 'slut'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:02:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28970274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralgrime/pseuds/ephemeralgrime
Summary: Ridiculous,he’d thought, fingering the line between the leather and the lamé, the seam obvious and ostentatious. But when he slid it on for the first time, he knew he’d be wearing it.Copia does a final wardrobe check before his first show as Papa Emeritus IV. Terzo watches.
Relationships: Cardinal Copia/Papa Emeritus III
Comments: 12
Kudos: 56





	courtesy, sympathy, taste

**Author's Note:**

> set in a handwavey AU where Terzo is alive after faking his death (or maybe having it faked for him). 
> 
> shout out to The Jacket (TM) for breaking the fandom. halle-fucking-lujah to the year of ghost. 
> 
> much love to [@backwards_blackbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Backwards_Blackbird/works) for the light-speed beta!

"Do you know what Nihil would have done to me if my first performance was on a game show?"

Copia looks at Terzo’s reflection in the mirror behind him. He’s wrapped in the comforter with one bare calf poking out from the bedsheets, looking rather unhappy to be awake. He’s got his appraising face on and not much else.

Copia cinches the cord of his tie, watching it climb higher on his neck. “I don’t suppose I have to worry about what Nihil thinks anymore.” 

Tero’s laugh is brief and sharp, like a knife between the ribs. “No. I don’t suppose you do.” 

“Can’t imagine he’d like this, either,” Copia says, smoothing the lapels of his jacket until they sit flat. “Not wearing my robes. Not wearing my colors. I feel like I’m going to get a demerit.”

“ _Ha!_ ” Terzo says, brushing his hair back. It’s gotten long. Both of theirs has, but after all, it’s been a year for letting things grow wild. “You’d be surprised at what he wore in his heyday. The sixties are best left to the imagination.” He twists to the side to rummage loudly in the bedside drawer. “But he was nothing if not a hypocrite, so there you go.” 

It’s late. So late that it’s morning in some places, and the world outside is blue and still and cold. Imperator and the ghouls will be coming to collect him in a few hours, but Copia couldn’t sleep—not without one last wardrobe check. Much to Terzo’s grousing, he’d slipped out from the warm snugness of the bed and walked barefoot to the hook on the closet door, where the jacket was hanging stiff like a freshly skinned pelt, bright even in the light from the bedside lamp.

“You know, I still can’t believe you ordered something _online_. And a straight size!” The lighter goes _schk schk schk_ before it catches in a bright flare at the mirror’s edge. Copia watches the cut of Terzo’s cheeks deepen as he inhales, then exhales. “I take my eye off the ball for a _year_ , maybe two, and this is what you do with the name _Papa_. It came in a zippered vinyl bag!” 

Copia turns left in front of the mirror, smoothing down the fabric over his stomach. He’s riding too high on anticipation to take the bait this time. “I like it,” he says simply.

And he _does_ like it. He’d liked it as soon as he saw it. The jacket is fine lamé, so lustrous that it shines like water under the light. It’s slasher-movie red, with black sleeves cut into a sharp _V_ above his forearms, like he’s up to his elbows in ichor. It’s not sequined, but it may as well be with how it’ll shine under studio lights. 

_Ridiculous,_ he’d thought, fingering the line between the leather and the lamé, the seam obvious and ostentatious. But when he slid it on for the first time, he knew he’d be wearing it. 

It creases when he moves. It creases when he _breathes_. There’s something thrilling about how improbably delicate it is. It could lose its luster before the night’s over; perhaps even before the song. 

Extravagant. Impractical. _Emeritus._

He’d lowered his face to it earlier, right after it arrived, with boyish shyness, like he’d get his ear pulled for doing it. While it still lay pristine in the garment bag, he pressed his face there, inhaling slowly. It smelled expensive and strange, and bitter black around the leather. Smoky and musky, like it was still half-alive.

Terzo looks up from his nail beds then, pretending he didn’t just get ash on Copia’s bedsheets. “Oh, I like it, too. You’re a regular Bond girl. I’m just surprised you didn’t get the tailor to make you something custom.” He taps his cigarette into the heavy black ashtray next to him. “That man _hated_ me at the end of it all. He told me he could see the stitches of my robes when he closed his eyes at night. Ha!” 

He laughs again, teeth flashing, and Copia can’t help but track the movement of his mouth; the creases at the corner of his eyes. It’s strange to see his face so bare and animated, though he hasn’t seen it painted in a long time.

“He said I gave him arthritis,” Terzo says. “Can you believe that?” 

“You _did_ give him arthritis,” Copia says, buttoning the front, then, reconsidering, sliding the button free. “I had Aether clear it up last year.” 

“Hmm,” Terzo says noncommittally to that, puffing quietly. The wrinkles around his eyes look deeper when the tip flares orange. He catches Copia staring and smiles, resettling himself to let the comforter drop an inch or two. “Well, that’s why you’re steering the ship these days,” he says with feigned indifference. Copia watches the _O_ shape of his mouth as he exhales. 

A pause. Copia lets it stretch until Terzo speaks again. He’s learned, through fits and starts, that Terzo always functions better when he feels he’s commanding an audience. Even if it’s just Copia. He’s content to play the part of the crowd, when he must.

“You’re good at this, you know,” Terzo says after another moment. “All of this, I mean. Showmanship. Managing ghouls. Fixing the knuckles of old men,” He smiles at Copia, a little sadly. “You were the right pick.”

Terzo gets maudlin about this sometimes, though he won’t admit to it. Copia’s of the opinion that if you’ve gripped the handrail that close to death and come back again, you’re permitted a little bitching. But Copia also knows Terzo well enough not to poke at his bruises if he can help it, so he pivots a little. 

“You miss it,” he says. 

“Of course.” Terzo says simply. “Of course I miss it.” He taps another line of ash into the tray, like a wounded ego and a brush with death are things you can shed just as easily. “But this is the next best thing. And you really do look _good_.” Copia watches his eyes narrow as he takes another pull, his eyes flitting from Copia’s waist to his feet. “I just wish you’d _lean_ into it a little more. Really let go. I mean, you’re wearing last tour’s pants.” 

Copia plucks at his trousers. They’re the usual - tight all the way down, except around the calves. “Well, not all of us can live on the inheritance of the presumed dead. I have fund allocation to worry about now.”

Terzo laughs in disbelief. “If Abba wrote off all their costumes on their taxes, you can buy a new pair of pants. Actually—” he says, swinging his legs off the bed, stubbing out the cigarette on his way out. “I have a better idea.” 

Copia watches his bare ass while he rummages in their wardrobe, utterly unselfconscious, until he seems to find what he was looking for. He walks over to Copia, naked and quite pleased with himself, and presses a folded stack of black fabric into this hand. “Put them on.” 

Copia does his best to mind the jacket as he wriggles out his pants and folds them neatly, then slides Terzo’s on. And they _are_ actually Terzo’s, it seems, because the cut is generous. Much looser than Copia’s accustomed to wearing. Baggy, even.

“Did you have these badly tailored on purpose?” Copia asks, pinching the loose fabric between his fingers, pointing his toe to examine the way it drapes over his leg. “I always wondered. I didn’t figure you of all people would approve of something so...” He looks up, considers his reflection: the garish jacket with the prim slacks of a bank clerk. “...Modest.” 

_“Me of all people.”_ Terzo repeats, sidling up to him, the bare length of his body pressed against a mile of woven silk, a hand toying with the button of Copia’s jacket. They watch his finger circle there together, innocent and filthy all at once. “Just call me a slut. It has fewer syllables.”

“You know what I mean.” 

Terzo hums in agreement, tucking himself closer against Copia, until they’re both in the mirror’s frame. One bare, one decidedly not. 

“It’s a misdirection. You make them imagine what they can't have.” Terzo’s hand, splayed wide and generous, travels slowly down Copia’s thigh. “Tease them a little.” His hand stills, caught between hip and knee. “And they want it more.”

“I'm not sure how much they need to imagine,” Copia says, closing his eyes, feeling an ache build low in his gut in spite of himself. In spite of many things, really: the hour. The day he has ahead of him. The night they just had. “They’ve seen it all before.”

“You’d be surprised how fond your heart gets after a little absence,” Terzo says, pressing a kiss below his ear. He smells like tobacco and something a little sweeter—detergent from the sheets, maybe. Copia inhales sharply when he bites the curve of his ear.

“Besides,” Terzo continues, still stroking Copia’s thigh, his lips warm on his neck. “ _I’ve_ seen it all before, haven’t I? And don’t I keep coming back?” 

He squeezes Copia then, firmly, through his pants, and Copia’s pulse answers eagerly in his throat. 

“Terzo,” Copia says, but he doesn’t move to stop his hand. “We should have been asleep hours ago.”

“You’re the one who got out of bed,” Terzo says defensively. One slim white finger presses firmly along his zipper, already starting to show the strain a little. 

“Later. After.” Copia slides his gloved hand over Terzo’s bare one, squeezing gently around the wrist until it goes slack. Terzo huffs, disappointed, but not deterred. There’s jealousy there, Copia thinks, but more for the crowd that he has to share Copia with than anything else. He’s never been good at letting go.

“Then promise me you’ll think of me,” Terzo says, his lips brushing against Copia’s jaw, kissing at stubble he’ll have to remember to shave before he leaves in the morning. Copia can feel him pressed hard against his clothed thigh, just out of sight in the mirror. “When you’re onstage. When everyone is watching. Think of me as I am, right now.” 

Copia lets his eyes fall shut. It’s warm by the lamp near the mirror, and he’s tired, finally, and if he concentrates—if he _really_ focuses—he can almost feel the stage lights. 

And maybe he’ll feel something else, too, between his bare fingers. Before he slides on his gloves. Just before the curtain lifts: a crease at the shoulder of his jacket, where Terzo pressed his cheek into the fabric. 

“I will,” he says. “I promise.” 

**Author's Note:**

> kudos & comments loved to the moon and back! thank you for reading.
> 
> @ratballet on tumblr & twitter.


End file.
